


Hospitality

by Azzandra



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Cohabitation, F/M, Pre-Romance, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:13:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke crashes at Fenris' place for a few weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hospitality

"Hawke... what exactly are you doing here?"

Hawke, sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace, raised her eyebrows in mock surprise, then looked from one hand (holding a bottle of wine) to the other (holding a half-empty glass).

"I should think it was obvious," she replied.

Fenris nearly twitched in annoyance.

"I mean what are you doing  _here_ ," he said slowly and with formidable calm, "in this house?"

"Oh, well, you know..." she gestured vaguely with the hand holding the glass, making the dark red liquid inside swish. She was looking everywhere but at Fenris. "Needed a change of scenery."

It became obvious that she was going to avoid the subject, and trying to pry it out of her would be difficult, since using force was not an option.

"Pass me the bottle," Fenris said with an irritated sigh.

Hawke grinned and complied.

Between the two of them, they managed to go through two bottles and a half before she finally confessed the reason behind her presence.

"Mother an' I are a bit at odds," she said, her words slurred and her face pinching into a frown. "Ever since we came t' Hightown, she's been having all these  _notions_."

"Like what?" Fenris asked, lightheaded enough to feel some niggling curiosity.

"Like  _marriage_." Hawke spat the word like it personally offended her.

"I don't see the problem if she wants to get married-"

"No, no. Marriage f'r  _me_."

"Oh."

"Yes,  _oh_. Could you pos'bly picture it?" Hawke shook her head. "Me. Married. No doubt t' some... some Hightown fop whose biggest concern is tha' his  _shoes_  are made out of squirrels with better breeding than his neighbors'. And he'll be expectin' t' marry some nice Amell, and what will he get instead? A  _Hawke_."

She continued on this tirade for a while, pouring as much effort and vitriol into it as Anders would into a rant against the Chantry, and sounding just as incoherent. Fenris mostly blocked out the noise, nodding at intervals and taking long swigs of wine, until she finally winded down.

"Anyway, tha's why 'm here," she finished, her face splitting into a huge smile. "With my good, good friend-" Fenris raised an eyebrow at this. "Well, um, so-so frie—acquaintance. My good, good acquaintance.  _Yes_. Acquaintance."

Hawke cleared her throat in the ensuing awkward silence and tried drinking, straight from the bottle, as she'd forgone the glass at some point, but she discovered to her chagrin that the bottle she was holding was empty. Her expression when she realized this was akin to that of a child finding out she would not be receiving any Wintersend gifts.

"Why not go to the Hanged Man?" Fenris grumbled. "I'm sure Varric will be much more willing to put up with you."

Hawke made a face. "And leave Mother alone?  _Here_?"

"I was under the impression that Hightown is the safest part of Kirkwall."

"Pfft. Let me tell you, at least in Darktown, you'll get a knife in th' ribs all honest-like and straightforward. Y'know what alleys to avoid and which blighters'll kill you just t' steal your teeth. But here? Who knows which of those jackals t' trust." She threw a dark glance around, holding the empty bottle to her chest, as if at any moment, a Hightown noble would jump from the shadows and steal it.

Fenris didn't comment on this. He rather doubted Leandra was in as much danger as Hawke believed, but after her sister's death and her brother's near-death experience and subsequent recruitment into the Wardens, Hawke had become more anxious than ever about her remaining family's safety.

"How long are you staying here?" Fenris asked.

"Until she gives up," Hawke muttered. "'M'not marrying anybody. I'd have to learn embroidery," she added with a look of horror.

Fenris shook his head.

"You need to go to bed. Come on."

She rose to her feet—and teetered dangerously. Fenris caught her before she became too closely acquainted with the floor.

"Ooh, all the wine jus' rushed to my head," the woman slurred. Fenris hoped desperately she wasn't about to sick up.

Since he was only marginally less drunk than her, guiding her to the bed proved a bit of a challenge. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other—and making sure Hawke remembered to do the same—he finally managed to make the short walk to the corner where the bed had been shoved.

"Oooh, wait, I can't steal your—hic—bed..." Hawke mumbled.

"I don't use it anyway. And I'm not going to walk you home."

"I don' need walkin' home!" Hawke retorted, eyes wide as she tried to look much more sober than she felt. "'M fine!"

"You can barely walk across the room," Fenris snorted and gave her a gentle shove. Hawke crashed on the bed with a shriek. Fenris paused a few moments while Hawke rearrange herself into a more dignified position.

"Th' sheets smell like dust," she groused, glaring up at him.

Fenris wordlessly pulled off her shoes and threw them aside.

"There," he said. "Now go to sleep."

"'M cold."

The corner of his mouth twitched in irritation, but Fenris reached over her and pulled the covers over Hawke.

"Thank you, Fenris," Hawke purred, happily nuzzling the pillow. "Yer much nicer when yer drunk."

Fenris snorted again, but Hawke didn't hear; she was already asleep, cradling an empty bottle to her chest.

Hawke woke well past noon, bleary-eyed, with her hair a mess and her robes rumpled. Fenris was not in much better condition himself, and he was relieved when she shuffled on home, slouched over and cursing the sun under her breath.

By evening, however, she was back, this time carrying a covered basket which, judging by the appetizing smells wafting out of it, held dinner. Hawke herself had groomed and changed her clothes, the only sign of her previous disarrayed state being her bloodshot eyes.

"You just left," Fenris said when he saw her in the doorway.

"Oh, Mother and I are still having our tiff," Hawke shrugged. "I just slipped back into the house while she was off visiting Uncle Gamlen and got us some food."

"'Us'?" Fenris couldn't help but ask in a clipped tone, even though his stomach was growling. He'd been too hung-over to go scrounging for food that day, and since that was Hawke's fault, he felt entitled to the food Hawke had brought along. That didn't mean he'd make it easy for her, though.

"Well, I figured you wouldn't have much more than wine for your guests, and we need something to soak up the alcohol, yes?"

Hawke strode in and started unpacking the basket on the table.

Fenris only offered token resistance.

* * *

So she spent the night again, this time under the covers, and the next day, she was back by late afternoon, this time carrying a fresh set of bedclothes.

"What are those for?" Fenris asked pointedly.

"For the bed, obviously," Hawke replied slowly.

"I don't  _use_  the bed."

"In case you have houseguests, then."

"Again?"

"Mother is very stubborn."

"Must run in the family."

They stood in silence for a good minute, glaring at each other. Hawke looked away first.

"I suppose I could always ask Anders if he has a free bed at the clinic," she sighed, looking forlorn. "Do keep an eye on Mother, will you, Fenris?"

She turned on her heel, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Fenris bit back a groan.

"Hawke. Wait."

The woman turned her head just slightly, so he could only see the corner of her eye.

"Yes, Fenris?" she said, her voice perfectly neutral.

"Knowing you, you'd probably catch some deadly plague there," the elf muttered. "And there's already a bed available here."

She turned around fully, grinning in that wide, too-innocent fashion of hers.

"Why, Fenris! What a gentleman you are!"

"But only for tonight," Fenris growled. "I want you to put an end to this foolishness tomorrow."

"I  _promise_ ," Hawke said solemnly. "First thing tomorrow, Mother and I are having a chat."

* * *

The chat did not go well. The next day, Fenris returned from his weekly game of Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man to find Hawke baking potatoes in his fireplace.

* * *

Four nights turned into a week.

* * *

"You moved the furniture."

"Hm?"

Fenris was standing in the middle of the room, glaring daggers at everything. Hawke, sprawled in front of the fireplace with a book, did not even raise her head from its pages.

"You  _moved_  the  _furniture_ ," Fenris repeated. "I was only gone for a few hours, at most! What possessed you-"

"Oh, hush, I just tidied up the place a bit," Hawke motioned for him to calm down. "The dust here was clogging my nose."

Indeed, now that she mentioned it, the dull sheen of dust that perpetually covered everything seemed to have lessened, and a great deal of cobwebs seemed to have disappeared.

"Consider it payment. In lieu of rent."

Fenris muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath.

"I also found this book while I was cleaning. Do you want to read it after I'm done?" Hawke asked, looking up for the first time. "It's  _Orlesian_ ," she added with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows.

Fenris' expression darkened even more, if such a thing were possible.

"And do you suppose they teach slaves to read?" he snapped.

Hawke blinked at this outburst.

"It's not too late to learn, Fenris," she said softly. "I could teach you."

Fenris inhaled sharply, but the acidic retort he had planned on giving her died on his lips.

"Perhaps you're right," he said, mollified somewhat.

* * *

A week turned into two.

* * *

"Fenris, your hair is getting a bit long," Hawke pointed out and, before he could properly react, reached out and ran her fingers through it. He recoiled, giving her a blistering glare.

"I suppose it is," he muttered. He'd just been thinking about the uncomfortable way it stuck to the sides of his face when he was sweating, and he didn't really want to stop in the middle of a battle to slick it back.

"We should give it a cut."

"'We'?"

"Well, you can't do it on your own," Hawke replied petulantly.

"I've managed without you so far," Fenris replied, brushing his hair back down.

"That certainly explains a lot," Hawke said, earning herself a scowl from Fenris. "Oh, come on! I used to do this for Carver before he..." Her voice trailed off, but after clearing her throat, she continued, "I used to do this for Carver all the time. I know what I'm doing."

Fenris sighed. Hawke was on the very short list of people that he would ever allow near his head with a sharp object (though just barely), and he could see that it was one of those things she'd nag him endlessly about unless he allowed her to do as she pleased. He had neither the energy nor the inclination to argue with her about this.

"Fine," he conceded. Hawke gave a delighted squeal and ran to one of the cabinets, producing a pair of scissors that Fenris was fairly sure hadn't been there before Hawke had moved in, and a comb he didn't recognize.

"Good. Now, undress," she instructed.

"...Excuse me?" Fenris wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. "Hawke, my hair is on my head."

"Yes, yes, and do you want the clipped hair to get down your armor and clothes?" Hawke explained slowly. "You're cranky enough when you're  _not_  itchy."

Fenris glared, but removed his gauntlets, breastplate and tunic. As he did so, he glanced towards Hawke and could tell, by the tense lines of her shoulders, that she was trying hard not to look in his direction, instead inspecting the scissors closely. He appreciated the sentiment, though he did not voice it out loud.

Hawke sat him down on the bench in front of the fireplace, then moved behind him. She brushed his hair first, slowly and carefully. After getting all the tangles out, she started cutting, brushing her fingers through his hair gently.

Between the crackling fireplace, the rhythmic clipping of the scissors and her soft touches, Fenris felt oddly lulled by this situation. Usually, he'd crop his hair himself, using a dagger and the best reflective surface he could manage. When he'd been a slave, this aspect of his grooming had been the responsibility of another slave, and she would absolve herself of the task with cold efficiency. The way Hawke did it, though, was... soothing. There was affection in her movements, something Fenris could not remember experiencing often in his life, if at all. He closed his eyes and he could almost imagine a time when someone else had done this for him, before Danarius and the markings, when another woman's hands measured the length of his locks and clipped carefully, and dark wisps of hair falling at his feet...

He flinched, his eyes snapping open.

"What's wrong? Did I snip you?" Hawke asked, concern in her voice.

"No," Fenris replied, harsher than he intended. "Are you done?"

"It's—well, yes, mostly, but-"

"It's good enough," he said and rose, turning around to face her.

"You should probably take a bath," Hawke suggested, timidly, brushing off hair from his shoulder. She retracted her hand awkwardly, however, her eyes falling to his bare chest and tracing his marking half-way down before she looked away, shifting uncomfortably.

"Yes," Fenris said belatedly, when he realized he was staring at Hawke. "Bath. Yes."

He left the room, feeling inexplicably dizzy.

* * *

Two weeks turned into three.

* * *

Somewhere along the line, Fenris had become resigned to the fact that Hawke would be living with him for the foreseeable future. While the initial argument Hawke had with her mother was long in the past, the two women had moved on to a bevy of other grievances, small or large, all erupting at once after being buried for years. At least once a week, Hawke would return to the Amell estate and return thundering, only to launch into angry tirades that lasted for hours.

Since there seemed to be no end in sight to the feud between Hawke and Leandra, Fenris no longer questioned Hawke trailing after him as they returned to his mansion after a long day of running around and killing mercenaries and slavers. He didn't really mind when she sneaked back into the estate and brought food day after day, or the infrequent reading lessons she'd coax him into, from time to time.

Sometimes, he found himself thinking that Hawke would stay there forever, and had to reprimand himself for it. Hawke was a rising force in Kirkwall. One day, she would cease bickering with her mother and she would go home, relieved that she would no longer have to live in a rotting mansion with an irritable former slave.

And he would be relieved to see her go, doubtlessly, because she was a constant source of annoyance, stubborn, loud, often inconsiderate of his personal space, and a mage on top of that. The longer she stayed, the more likely it would be that they would eventually kill each other.

* * *

One of his hands was around her throat and another was phased through her chest, and he wasn't sure what was making her wheeze harder, the lack of air, or her heart being squeezed.

Stunned, Fenris released her and jumped back, looking around him in confusion.

Hawke pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes screwed shut in pain. He grew momentarily alarmed at the soft glow around her hand until he realized it was a healing spell. For a second, his instincts had been screaming at him, warning that she would strike him down for attacking her.

"What..." His memory started functioning again, and he recalled that he'd been having a nightmare; hands coming at him out of the darkness, and Danarius' mocking laughter in his ear. It was all too vivid, and the fear too alive, and the next thing he remembered was standing over Hawke, feeling the erratic motions of her heart in his hand, like a trapped bird trying to escape his fist.

Hawke's breathing slowed to its normal rhythm and she propped herself up on an elbow, giving Fenris a weary look.

"You were having a nightmare," she said, her voice still thready. "I tried to wake you."

Fenris had figured as much, and he looked down—then looked away, as Hawke's nightgown had ridden up her legs in the struggle and now covered a great deal less than modesty dictated. He wordlessly reached out and pulled the hem down.

"You shouldn't have done that. I could have killed you," he said, still looking away from her.

"I think you damn near did," she replied, laughing weakly.

This, at least, made him look at her; she was rubbing her throat and looking back, no accusation in her eyes and no anger on her face.

For some reason, this managed only to incense Fenris.

"Hawke, this is not the time for pithy lines," he growled. "I could have  _killed_  you. Do you not understand that?"

"You were having a ni-"

"Yes, I was having a nightmare," he spat. "I have nightmares, Hawke, all the time. I don't require your pity. I don't need your help. And if you weren't here in the first place, I would not have nearly  _crushed your heart into pulp_!"

He yelled that last part, making her flinch. She froze in place, looking stunned and... hurt, and Fenris started regretting his outburst. Yet, the damage was already done.

"So you want me to leave?" she whispered, the confusion on her face crystallizing into cold fury.

A small voice in Fenris' head was whispering that, no, that was the exact opposite of what he wanted. But when he opened his mouth, different words came out.

"I want you to be gone by morning."

* * *

And she was. She dressed and gathered her belongings in utter silence, and she was gone by first light. He watched her in the corner of his eye as she did so, and because he was a coward, he did not say anything.

After she left, Fenris realized that he hadn't even apologized for attacking her.

* * *

The next few days were filled with a strange anxiety he could not place, and he caught himself listening for the sounds of another person's presence, for breathing, and moving and the brush of textiles against the body. Twice he thought he heard Hawke's steps, and once, he even tried catching her lingering scent, before realizing how foolish it was; he'd chased the woman away. He could not possibly be _missing_  her.

* * *

She came back a week later, carrying a book.

"I just thought you'd need something new to practice," she said awkwardly, shifting the book from hand to hand.

"Thank you," Fenris replied, then, as the silence stretched, added, "You left your bedclothes here."

Hawke shrugged.

"That's alright. Keep them," she replied. "In case you have houseguests again."

The tension in the air lessened after that.

"Perhaps you could stay and help me with that book," he offered.

He wasn't sure why, but the second she smiled at him, Fenris felt secure in the knowledge that everything would be alright.


End file.
